


I Don't Want to Cry When You Go

by LinguisticJubilee



Series: Not Alone [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Convoluted trigger explanation in notes, Fix-It, M/M, Post-Movie(s), Reincarnation isn't fun, bad communication skills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:14:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinguisticJubilee/pseuds/LinguisticJubilee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson dies so that others may live.  It's not a one-time event, it's his job, and he’s performed it willingly for the past hundred years.  He should be grateful, and he is.  </p>
<p>It’s just that he liked his last job.  And he can’t help but wonder, a little selfishly, if the universe would let him keep it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: The premise of this fic is that Phil consistently experiences death and is subsequently reincarnated. Thus is contains several depictions of death, both graphic and non-graphic. It also contains actions that could be perceived as suicidal. Each chapter will be headed by trigger warnings. While this is a work-in-progress, a more detailed trigger warning can't be posted without spoiling chapters that haven't been written yet. If any of this concerns you, please wait until I've finished and posted spoiler-filled end notes, or send me a private message at any time. Above all, please be safe. <3
> 
>    
> EDIT: Spoilery trigger warnings are now in the end notes if you wish to read them.
> 
>  
> 
> \--
> 
> Title comes from [Not Alone](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FYpu2W2rJ6s) by Sara Bareilles. 
> 
> _I don't want to be alone_  
>  _Sky, don't let the sun go_  
>  _I'm not ready for the darkness_  
>  _Swear upon a heartless soul_  
>  _And I don't want to cry when you go_  
>  _Stay a little longer, you know_  
>  _You're making me feel_  
>  _I’m not alone_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for the death of a child.

_Once upon a time, a child drowned in a river. There was nothing particularly noteworthy about the tragedy; he was an ordinary child in an ordinary river. The universe cannot be expected to pay attention to such everyday affairs. But the child’s mother, driven by a grief no less agonizing for all that it was common, was determined to hold the universe accountable._

_So she sued. No one is quite sure how she managed it; mortals are supposed to be too preoccupied with their busy lives to do more than wonder about the workings of the universe. But somehow the child’s mother found the timeless courthouse that had been maintaining peace in the cosmos for millennia. She strode up the marble steps, calm and composed, and filed an appeal for the death of her son._

_The court erupted into chaos. Harried aides swept the mother into a commanding, marble-walled courtroom and pushed her to the front. She saw, staring down at her from a tall dais, the justices charged with deliberating the universe’s great controversies. They took the appearance of men and women of the world’s races, though whether they always looked so or simply dressed for the occasion was a mystery. The mother refused to be intimidated, and bravely drew herself up to plead her case. She described, her voice shaking with emotion, the child’s extraordinary goodness and kindness. Dying so young, when the child had so much to offer, was an injustice. She spoke not just of her loss, but of the world’s: what if he would have grown up to do something important?_

_The justices were kind. They explained, in gentle voices, that the child’s fate had already been decided. No opportunities were being denied. Simply put, if the child was going to do something important, he would've done it already. The court had no choice but to dismiss her appeal._

_But one justice took pity on the mother, whose head hung in resignation. It was not every day that a mortal walked into their court, after all. She offered the mother a form of clemency for the child. There were positions available where the boy could make himself useful. He couldn’t return to his old life, and it wouldn’t be perfect, but he would get to live. The mother, desperate for anything, agreed._

_And so it came to be that, once upon a later time, a man was stabbed in the chest._


	2. Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil Coulson died. Phil is still getting used to that idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No additional trigger warnings for this chapter.

Phil Coulson opens his eyes. He is standing in a small but tastefully decorated sitting room. Wide white molding borders muted pink walls; the hardwood floor is covered by a Persian rug. Two armchairs rest next to an antique serving table, ready with a waiting china tea set. 

Phil Coulson wants to scream.

He’s found himself in this room a dozen times before. The first time, he was eighteen. He had dragged the school bully three miles in the snow to safety before collapsing himself. Another, he was on an expensive yacht whose owners had skimped on life vests. He gave his to a young girl. The last time, he refused to hold the elevator in a rickety Queens apartment building. It rose to the fifth floor before the cable snapped.

The school bully became an RAF pilot during World War II. The girl grew old and died a few years ago from a heart attack, but not before developing incredible advancements in the treatment of late-stage cancer. The woman who cussed Phil out as the elevator doors closed will be elected, in a few years time, President of the United States.

Phil wonders who he died for this time. 

The door opens, and a short, plump woman in an sharp pink skirt suit bustles in. “Philip, darling, how are you?” she says, throwing her arms out.

“I don’t know, Margie, I did get _stabbed_ today,” Phil says, acerbically. Margie gasps and throws a hand to her chest. Phil, immediately guilty, steps forward and kisses her cheek. “I’m well, Margie,” he says, squeezing her arm comfortingly. “I just liked that one, is all.” 

She smiles understandably. “Be grateful for what you have, sweetheart. You should know that better than anyone. Now come sit, or the tea will get cold.” She pushes Phil into an armchair and busies herself with the china set. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you, my dear. It’s been such a long time.”

“Twenty years.” Phil resists the urge to sink his head into his hands. “Can you tell me why it took so long?”

“This was a difficult one,” she says, handing him a cup. He just holds it, letting its warmth seep into his hands. “It always gets more difficult when we’re involving inter-dimensional travel, you know, and the Asgardians are particular trouble. And then, of course, we had to build the relationships.”

Phil’s head snaps up. “Excuse me?” he asks, mildly. 

Margie laughs, a soft, tinkling sound. “Aren’t you going to ask the question? I know you love the question, go on ahead.” 

Phil pauses. “Who was it this time, Margie? In whose place did I die?”

She smiles, wide and proud. “Manhattan.” 

Phil stares at her, not comprehending. “Manhattan?” That’s not how it works. _Manhattan_ can’t get stabbed in the chest.

“The Avengers were broken. Without you, they would’ve fought, and they would’ve fought bravely. But they wouldn’t have won, because they wouldn’t have fought together. Loki wasn’t enough, and the fate of the world wasn’t enough. But you, Phil, were enough to unite them. They fought as a team, and they fought in your memory.” 

Phil closes his eyes, as the reality rushes in. The Avengers are a success, New York is saved, and Phil...

Phil will never see Clint again. 

Eventually, he realizes Margie is talking.

“--a short one, should only take a few months or so. Just a quick hop and back, now doesn’t that sound refreshing?” 

Phil forces a smile. Margie grins back, and stands up. “Alright, sweetie, you be a good boy, you hear?” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says obligingly. She kisses him on the cheek and leaves the room. Phil leans back, and closes his eyes.

And Phil Coulson ceases to exist.


	3. Protocols

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil has protocols for starting a new life. Some are easier to follow than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for non-lethal violence.

Phil Sullivan opens his eyes and knows everything about himself. He’s twenty-five, a graduate of Boston University, and will teach high school geography in the fall. He’s standing in a tidy one-bedroom condo in Mission Hill, of which he is the proud owner. 

But mostly, he knows that he’s not Phil Coulson anymore, doesn’t have the right to be Phil Coulson anymore, and he feels an agonizing cold wrap itself around his bones. 

Phil takes a steadying breath and focuses on the protocols. He’s created protocols for starting a new life, a routine he can cling to every time his reality is shredded. Numb, Phil walks over to the desk and boots up the computer. Before anything else, Phil always checks the news. He skips time between each life and he never knows how much. Years can pass before he’s needed next, so Phil briefs himself on everything he’s missed. One time, he had opened his eyes to find they had beaten Hitler. Apparently he could fight-- _twice--_ in the war but didn’t need to attend the victory. 

Phil clicks open the browser, and the window opens up to Yahoo’s homepage. A huge photo of the Hulk dominates the screen, and underneath the headline reads: _“Robotic Reptiles Exterminated by Avengers.”_

Phil types frantically, his heart in his throat. No matter where he goes--CNN, _The New York Times_ , BBC, _Le Monde_ \--the Avengers fill the headlines. _“Superhero Avengers Reunite to Save Philadelphia from Groundhog Terror.” “Avengers ‘Here to Stay,' New York Mayor Says.”_

Phil has only been gone eight weeks. The Avengers have saved the world twice in that time.

He freezes on a photo from _El País_. It’s a candid, taken after a battle. In the foreground, Stark is chatting with reporters. Off to the side, Natasha is cleaning a scrape on Clint’s shoulder while he laughs.

It’s the first time Phil’s seen Clint since Loki took him in New Mexico. He looks weary and battle-worn but _whole_ , alive and so goddamned beautiful that Phil’s new eyes begin to prick dangerously.

Phil has another protocol: don’t make friends. He’s just here as a placeholder; in a few years, months, or even days he could be gone, and they’d think he was dead. He couldn’t force someone to mourn for him when he was doing his job.

But Clint Barton has always had a gift for breaking rules.

***

The first time Phil met Clinton Francis Barton, Phil shot him.

Barton collapsed against the alley wall, laughing as he slid down the bricks. “Why the fuck did you shoot me?” he said, gasping, his hand gripping the bullet wound in his thigh.

“You were going to run away again, and I need to talk to you,” Phil said, matter-of-factly. He knelt down next to Barton, pressing the fabric of his tie to Barton’s wound. “Paramedics will be here shortly. My name is Agent Coulson, with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.” 

Barton laughed again. “Well, it appears I’m listening, Agent Coulson.”

Phil looked at Barton curiously. “Four months ago, you robbed a rather important diplomat of his wife’s favorite necklace.” 

Barton shot him a defiant glare. “So you here to lock me away for it?”

“Hardly. The necklace, as it was soon revealed, linked this important diplomat to an international conspiracy to overthrow the World Security Council.”

Barton blinked. “Well, fuck me.” He sounded surprised. Phil knew better. 

“We then had two choices: leave you to the wolves, or find you before the bad guys did. I’m here to offer you a job, Mr. Barton.” 

“Do I get a choice?” Barton grimaced, hand closing into a fist. “Because I’m pretty sure I vote for the wolves. They haven’t shot me yet.” 

“But they will,” Phil said, mildly. “And they won’t stop at one bullet. I promise you, Mr. Barton, that that was the last time I’ll ever hurt you.” 

Barton looked up and met his gaze. He nodded slowly. “Alright. But why would the spooks want a guy like me?” 

“I believe, Mr. Barton, that you knew exactly who Ambassador Boren was and exactly what you were stealing. We could use a man of your intelligence at SHIELD.” 

Three black SUVs pulled up to the mouth of the alley, tires screeching. Agents hustled out of the doors. Barton chuckled. Phil couldn’t understand why the man was laughing so much. “Take me to my doom, then, Agent Coulson.” 

Barton let himself be carted off to SHIELD’s medical facilities. Phil visited him every day while he was recuperating, smuggling in junk food and trashy magazines. It wasn’t preferential treatment, and it certainly wasn’t breaking Phil’s rule. He was just feeling guilty about shooting the guy. 

Barton was soon released from medical, but somehow Phil found himself still socializing with Barton. It wasn't on purpose. Barton kept following him around like a lost puppy, and Phil was too kind to turn him away. Weeks turned into months, and Phil couldn't help noticing that he spent most of his free time with Barton, eating crappy meals in the SHIELD cafeteria or playing poker in Barton's crappy quarters. 

A year after Barton’s recruitment, Phil unlocked his office to find Barton, dirty and stinky from a mission gone sour, lounging on the couch. It was no different than any other time Barton let himself into Phil’s office, but Phil froze in the doorway and stared. Barton had propped his bare feet up against the armrest and was leaning back contentedly. His shirt had ridden up, revealing a tantalizing inch of skin. His hair was sticking up in all directions and he was sporting a spectacular black eye. 

He was the most beautiful thing Phil had ever seen.

“So the juniors think you’re a robot,” Barton said, without preamble. 

Phil stepped into the room. “And I’m sure you had nothing to do with that particular rumor,” Phil said dryly, sinking into his chair. 

“They would’ve figured it out on their own eventually,” Barton countered, rolling over to look Phil in the eye. “They’ve even come up with some original material. _‘Agent Coulson’s batteries run on the fear of his enemies.' 'Agent Coulson doesn’t have a first name, just a unit designation number.’”_

“Oh I like that one, very clever.” Phil flipped through a file on his desk, but his full attention was on Barton and the warm tone in his voice. 

“It could actually be true. For all I know, your first name really is Alpha-3 or some shit.” 

Phil looked up. Barton had said it casually, like he was continuing the joke, but there was something earnest in his eyes. 

“It’s Phil,” he offered, returning back to his file.

“Phil,” Clint repeated, and something in Phil’s heart constricted. “I like that name.”

***

Clint Barton broke Phil’s rule that day, and broke Phil in the process. All of a sudden, Phil started finding himself caring about a whole lot of people: Natasha, the juniors, then Pepper and yes, even Stark. Phil Coulson had made a lot of friends.

And lot of people mourned Phil Coulson on the day he died.


	4. Pot and Kettle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint promised not to jump off buildings if Phil promised not to die. In the purpose of fairness, Phil supposes he did break his promise first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for canon-typical violence, actions that may be perceived as suicidal, and reckless behavior.

The light wakes Phil up. He twists in bed, grumbling. Clint must’ve --

Oh. Right.

The light is the sun, streaming in through apartment windows and filling the room with a soft, warm glow. Phil blinks and looks at the alarm clock. It’s 10:30 in the morning. Phil Coulson was never allowed to sleep in past 5:00 AM. So there’s a silver lining.

Phil takes his time getting ready, getting used to how his new muscles move. When he’s finished, he stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. He’s a lanky kid, a little under six feet but without much muscle. He has blond hair that’s cropped close to his head and unremarkable brown eyes. The last time he was this young, Phil Washington’s plane was shot down over Vietnam. 

The air in the empty apartment is suddenly suffocating. Phil throws on a pair of shoes and tries not to hurry out the door. 

It’s been years, but Phil’s delighted to find Ziggy’s Curio Shop and Vintage Book Emporium still chugging along in a dank corner of Allston. The only change to the dusty shelves and haphazard boxes appears to be the Ziggy behind the counter. Ziggy Jr. is all grown up now, and except for the tattoos and piercings, he’s the spitting image of his father. He nods as Phil walks in the door. “Mornin’.” 

“Good morning,” Phil says. “I was wondering if you could show me your Captain America memorabilia.” 

“Yes, sir,” Ziggy says, hopping over the counter. He leads Phil down a winding pathway between the stacks of books to a grimy display case. He lifts the glass and gestures for Coulson to take a look. “Tell me, you an old fan of the Captain, or a new enthusiast?”

“Very old,” Phil murmurs, picking up a comic book. In 1943, Sergeant Philip Nelson had booed Captain America at a USO show in Italy. A day later, he had watched Captain America lead hundreds of rescued soldiers into the camp. It had made an impression. “But I lost my collection in a flood, so I have to start fresh.” 

“I’m sorry, man.” Ziggy leans against a bookshelf, crossing his arms. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you were a new fan, you know. It’s easy to get excited, what with the battle in New York and all. I mean, aliens come out of literally nowhere and there’s Cap, saving us all.” 

Phil just smiles, examining a trading card. “It’s hard to believe sometimes.”

“I don’t know if I can believe it. Some of the guys think it’s a conspiracy, you know? Make us believe in the country after 9/11. It does seem too good to be true, man coming back from the dead right before an attack.” 

Phil looks up then, staring right into Ziggy’s eyes. “He’s the real deal. I don’t have any doubt.” _And he fought because of me,_ Phil thinks in awe. 

Phil’s on the street, clutching his purchases, when _he fought because of me_ becomes _he fought because They manipulated him._ His stomach clenches, and without missing a stride Phil turns and walks into the nearest bar.

“Whiskey, neat,” Phil orders, sitting himself at a stool. _Build the relationships,_ Margie had said, like it was a box to be checked off a list. How much of a coincidence was it that Phil Coulson was the only life out of fifteen where Phil has made actual friends? Would they have even liked him if it wasn’t in the grand plan for him to do so?

If Phil wasn’t supposed to die, would Clint have still loved him?

***

Phil Coulson had a million and one reasons why telling Barton how he felt would be an extremely bad idea, and a million of those had nothing to do with the fact that Phil could croak any second. That didn’t stop Phil from wanting him, though. At his most maudlin, usually after a bottle of wine alone in his quarters, he’d think about dying for Barton. It was pathetic, he knew, but it eased the pain a little. No, he could never start a relationship with Barton, but he could watch his back and make sure to protect him. And if Phil saved Barton, then it would confirm a fact Phil had discovered a long time ago: Clint was special. 

A few years into this not-relationship he had with Barton, Phil had a false alarm. He and Sitwell had gotten trapped in a shootout during a particularly nasty op in the Himalayas. He dragged Sitwell’s bleeding body in the snow, certain this would be how Phil Coulson died. But somehow, Phil hauled them both to the extraction point, alive and only five hours behind schedule.

“Good job,” Hill told him during the debrief. “By the way, your boy jumped off a building again.” 

“He’s not my--” Phil started automatically, then paused. _“What?”_

“Barton jumped off a building during his op with Kowalski. They got back a few hours ago. You’re dismissed.” 

Phil nodded. He stood up calmly and walked out of the room. He had a brace on his left wrist and his back was aching, but he had one more thing to do before he could go home. He went straight to his office and unlocked the door. Barton shot straight up from the couch. “Coul--”

“What the hell were you thinking?” Phil yelled. 

Barton blinked. He laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. “You really don’t want to lecture me about this right now.” 

“Oh?” Phil said, acerbically. “So I should wait until the next time you jump off a building?”

Barton stared at him, incredulous. Phil pressed his advantage, moving into Barton’s face. “You can’t continue to exhibit such irresponsibility with your life--”

“Oh my god!” Barton threw up his hands. “Oh my god. You do not get to do this today. Not when I had to wait around while your radio went silent for _five fucking hours._ ” 

Phil bristled. “Don’t try and change the subject--”

“I’m fucking not, Coulson, so don’t pull that shit. You want to talk to me about responsibility? Pot _fucking_ kettle, Coulson.” 

“What are you talking about?” Phil yelled, anger still raw in his throat.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. You volunteer for every goddamned suicide mission you can. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Or am I just supposed to be okay with that?” 

It slammed into Phil then, because yes, that’s what his actions must have looked like from the outside. “It’s completely different,” he insisted, his tone exasperated.

“You’re right, it is different,” Clint said caustically, stepping back into Phil’s space, ”because when I pull stupid shit, I at least expect to survive it!” 

“My job is to protect you,” Phil told him angrily.

“And that’s supposed to, what, make me feel better? That you think you’re less important than me?”

“You are more important! You’re the most important thing in the goddamned world.” 

“And you’re the best friend I’ve ever had, so fuck you!”

“Fuck you too!” 

Phil grabbed at Barton’s waist the same time Barton’s hands fisted in Phil’s jacket, and suddenly they were kissing. Phil lost track of time, his mind went blank of anything that wasn’t Barton. It had been a _long_ time since Phil had been kissed like this. He pressed closer, and his wrist throbbed. Their conversation rudely rushed back. Phil broke away, gasping. “Wait. Don’t we still need to talk?”

Barton groaned impatiently. “I promise to stop jumping off buildings. Do you promise to stop going on suicide missions?” 

“I promise,” Phil lied.

“Good. Talk over.” Clint kissed him again.

 

***

Phil startles out of his memories at a shout from across the bar. “Hey, Chuck! Turn on the news!”

The bartender looks up and reaches for the remote. “What channel you want, Kyle?”

“Doesn’t matter.” 

The bar goes quiet. “Shit,” Chuck mutters. The television flickers on. New York is under attack. The camera is trained on the sky, where four or five large flying orange things are  
swooping around skyscrapers, fire raining from their mouths. The reporter’s voice is calling them dragons, and apparently they can also spit giant projectiles, like burning hot porcupine quills six-inches wide. Phil watches the shaky footage as the dragons pick off bystanders on the streets. Phil clutches at his glass, involuntarily crafting evacuation orders in his head.

Iron Man and Thor fly into frame, and the bar cheers. Iron Man distracts a dragon as Thor dives and hits it with his hammer. The dragon slams into a building before hitting the floor with a crash. The camera shifts, zooming in on a grainy figure standing on the roof of a three-story building. The reporter identifies him as Hawkeye, the Avengers’ archer. The man gets in five or six good shots at a dragon before the orange creature swoops in, shooting quills at the roof. The man runs, dodging, and jumps off the edge.

Time freezes, and the thought flies through Phil’s head: To be fair, you did break your promise first.

Before he knows it, Phil is standing up and reaching into his pocket for his wallet. He throws money on the bar and runs out into the street. Public transportation in the Metro-North area will be shut down, but a Coulson-Romanov-Barton get-away car is stashed in a car park about twenty miles from here.

Fuck the protocols. Phil’s going to New York.


	5. Indecision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is the sum of all our decisions, including the ones we never technically make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for graphic depiction of violence and death.

Phil Coulson would swear to himself later that he’d always remember that day. Another hundred years could pass and Phil #40 could be reincarnated onto a goddamned lunar colony and he would still remember every exact detail of that day.

When Phil arrived in his office, Clint and Natasha were already there, having one of their silent conversations. By then, he could read them too well: Natasha was glaring at Clint with her usual _you’re such an idiot_ stare, while Clint scowled back, his _butt out_ clear on his face. They dropped it at Phil’s presence, but he didn’t grow suspicious; if it was something he needed to know, Clint would tell him. 

Natasha turned to Phil and smirked. “Clint broke radio silence to tell fart jokes,” she tattled.

“It was self-preservation, Phil. I was downwind, and the bad guy ate eggs and beans for lunch. _Eggs and beans._ ” His face looked so horrified, Phil couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Are you free to leave?” he asked, slipping into the room and collecting his briefcase.

Clint nodded. “Medical gave us gold stars for coming back in mostly one piece. Literally, Dr. Guzman has been keeping them in her purse just in case.”

“I don’t blame her. Natasha, would you like to come over?” 

“Not today, thank you.” She shot Clint a _Look_ and strode out the door.

Clint and Phil walked home slowly, not talking much. At some point throughout the years, Clint’s stuff had migrated over to Phil’s apartment and his lease had quietly expired. They lived in a not-yet-gentrified part of Hell’s Kitchen, where Clint didn’t worry about fitting in with hipsters and Phil chatted with the neighbors in their respective languages. 

When they arrived at the house, Clint hopped in the shower ( _“Seriously, babe, I’m gross right now, kiss me later”_ ) and Phil busied himself making chili. Clint was still in the bathroom ten minutes later, so Phil left the pot to simmer and carried Clint’s duffel into the bathroom. He set it on the bed, humming to himself, and unzipped the top.

“Don’t touch that!”

Phil turned around, startled. Clint was standing in the doorway, freshly dressed and staring at Phil with what he could only assume was panic. “Uh,” Clint said, and he ducked his head, “can I just...unpack myself today?”

Phil stepped towards Clint and placed a hand on his arm. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re allowed to have things that are private. I’m glad in a way.” Clint looked up at that, and Phil smiled and shrugged. “You have something that you value enough to keep for yourself. That hasn’t always been the case.” 

Clint threw himself at Phil, burying his face in Phil’s neck. “Why are you--just--why.” Phil wrapped his arms around Clint carefully, breathing in his shampoo.

After a few moments, Clint tightened his hold on Phil. “So, hey,” he murmured into Phil’s shoulder, “I just want you to know. That what we have now, it makes me really happy. I never thought I’d have something like this, not even for a little bit, and--yeah. I couldn’t ask for more than this.” 

Phil frowned. Something about Clint’s tone and the way he gripped Phil’s waist made him worry. He pulled back, trying to get a look at Clint’s face. “Is everything okay?”

Clint laughed but didn’t quite meet Phil’s eyes. “I have more than I could ever want, Phil, how could everything _not_ be okay?” And there it was again, something Phil wasn’t quite catching. 

“Clint, do you think I’m not--do you think I’m going to leave you?” Clint’s head snapped up, and Phil knew. “Oh, god.” Ever since their first kiss, years ago, Phil had been terrified. Phil Coulson had an expiration date, and the longer Phil dragged Clint through this the more it would hurt the man in the end. But Phil was too selfish to give Clint up, so he’d been shoving the future out of his mind. He never mentioned anything long-term, never talked about more than a few months ahead. Of course Clint would pick up on his silence and internalize it. How could Phil ever make this right? “I love you,” he said, surprising himself with the sincerity in his voice. “Clint, you’re it for me. I love you, and I will be with you until the day I die.” 

Clint made a noise and looked up at him. All Phil could do was repeat: “I love you, I love you.” 

Clint sighed and grinned. “That’s fucking good to hear.” He surged up and met Phil’s lips. 

Phil clung to Clint, trying to beat down the crushing fear pounding in his chest. He wondered if he could ever find the words to explain who he was. Explain Phil Bennet, who spent the first eighteen years of his life thinking he was alone until he woke up to a pink room and an entirely different definition of loneliness. Or Phil Park, who waited three years in a post office in Queens just to fall down an elevator shaft. He wondered if it was even possible to explain Philip Crawford, who drowned in a river and not even Phil remembered. 

Before Phil could gather his thoughts, Clint pulled away. “So since that happened,” he said, laughingly, “I guess you can look in my bag now.” 

Phil blinked, not understanding, but Clint just shoved him lightly. Phil walked to the bed and felt through the bag. “What am I trying to--” His hand closed around a box, small and felt. He turned to Clint, his heart hammering. 

Clint smiled sheepishly. “I had a moment of weakness. There was this really cool jeweler, and he had matching set. And of course I had a giant freakout after I bought them and swore to hide them forever.” 

“Clint...” Phil kept his hand in the bag, fingers curled around the box.

“Natasha called me an idiot, said of course you would say yes.” Clint bit his lip. “So, um, do you?”

“Yes.” Phil blurted out. He stepped towards Clint and grabbed him, rings forgotten. “Yes. Yes.” 

Clint kissed him, and Phil decided there would be a better time for his confession. Except a better time never really came. A wedding didn’t either. Once they made the promise to themselves, the ceremony seemed less important. A year passed, then another, and Phil kept finding reasons not to tell Clint he was dying. He made Clint a widower all the same, without a wedding and without an explanation.

***

The bridges in Manhattan are shut down, so Phil spends the night in his car in a train station in Westchester. By morning, the city has already put itself to rights. Phil grabs a ready-bag from the car’s trunk and takes the first train into the city. He stands in Grand Central, feeling lost. The adrenaline from the day before has worn away, leaving a raw insecurity that gnaws at his stomach. Does he just waltz into Stark Tower and ring the figurative doorbell? Or just appear in their apartment like he belongs there? He should’ve thought up a plan before abandoning everything. Phil Coulson always had a plan.

But he’s not Phil Coulson anymore. He never really was, and that’s the crux of it. How can he ask Clint to trust him again, when he never should have earned their trust in the first place?

In the end, Phil camps out in a hipster coffee shop a few careful streets away from their apartment. He takes a table by the window and reads news report after news reports on Phil Sullivan’s smartphone. The massive creatures had appeared through a portal opened by a crazy scientist in Chelsea. The Avengers eliminated the dragons, six in total, and contained the portal fairly quickly. While most of the fire damage caused was cosmetic, authorities still can not confirm the number of casualties. Stark and Rogers gave their customary post-battle press conference, and Phil anxiously loads the video. When a reporter asks Iron Man about Hawkeye’s jump of a building, Stark just laughs. “Hawkeye parkoured his way down, he’s fine,” he says, but Phil can’t help noticing the way Rogers’ eyes tighten at the question. Phil drains his third coffee and stares at the cup. It’s probably too pathetic to order a fourth.

Phil hears screams erupt from outside and leaps to his feet. Through the window he can see countless orange creatures circling overhead. The cafe erupts in panic. “Does this building have a basement?” he yells to the barista cowering behind the corner. She nods mutely. “Get everyone in there, now. Stay in the center of the room away from the windows and don’t come out until authorities tell you it’s safe.” The woman stands up and begins directing people in a shaky voice. Phil tears open the ready-bag and grabs the handgun inside, silently thanking Natasha.

He runs out of the coffee shop, surveying the situation. A pregnant woman is taking shelter by a newsstand. He helps her up and leads her to the cafe, where the newly-courageous barista takes over. Running back outside, he sees a dragon swoop down. It’s only four feet long, red-orange and barreling towards him. He takes aim and fires a shot, but the bullet doesn’t appear to do any damage.

An arrow flies past his head and sinks into the dragon’s chest, killing it. Phil spins around, and there he is: Clint Barton, standing in the middle of the street in civilian clothes with his quiver slung across his back. An instinctual anger slams into Phil, catching him by surprise. But Clint _jumped off a building_ yesterday, what is he doing back in combat?

Clint runs past Phil, nocking another arrow. “What are you doing, kid?” he yells over his shoulder. “Get back inside!” Phil opens his mouth to retort and freezes. Before he can process it, he’s running, shoving Clint to the ground, and a searing, exploding pain erupts in his stomach. 

When Phil’s vision trickles back, he’s lying on his back with a dragon’s quill in his stomach. His world is on fire and none of it matters because Clint is looming over him, hands pressed to Phil’s wound. “You can’t die on me, you hear?” he’s saying, voice high and panicked. “Stupid kid, why would you do that?” 

“Had to,” Phil tells him and laughs, laughs until he’s coughing blood, because it’s so obvious now. He can see Phil Sullivan’s life spiral until there was no other choice but this one, to die by dragon in Clint Barton’s place. Clint clutches him tighter, and Phil’s laughter chokes in his throat. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whispers. 

“You’re sorry, don’t be--” Clint chokes. “What’s your name, kid?” Phil just shakes his head. “Everyone’s got a name, tell me.” 

He looks into Clint’s eyes and smiles apologetically. “ _Agent Coulson doesn’t have a first name,_ ’’” he rasps, “‘ _just a unit designation number._ ’”

__Clint’s eyes widen horribly. Phil lifts a shaky hand to Clint’s cheek. “I love you,” he says seriously, because Clint needs to know. “I love you so much.”_ _

__“Phil--?” Clint’s voice breaks, and this is worse, so much worse than anything Phil could have imagined._ _

__“I’m sorry,” he whispers again, and the world tilts dangerously. “Love you.”_ _

__Clint says something else, but Phil can’t hear it. The edges of his vision are fraying, and Phil has no interest in seeing what comes next. He takes one last look at Clint and closes his eyes._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys.
> 
> How are you? Are we doing okay?
> 
> Thank you for your patience with this chapter. ~Real life got in the way, so it's a little late, but the last chapter will be up by Tuesday at the latest. 
> 
> And if I may, I would like to interrupt your angst with my gushing. We hit a hundred kudos the other day, and I'm just...yeah. I'm so incredibly touched every time I get a kudo or a comment and I've blown my friends' eardrums with all my squealing. So a huge thank you to every one of you, and I promise the angst ends on Tuesday.


	6. Everyday Affairs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No additional trigger warnings for this chapter.

Phil Sullivan opens his eyes and stares at the muted pink walls and the china set and the cold reality that nothing changes. He sinks to the floor, wraps his arms around his knees, and cries.

Sometime later, he hears the door open and looks up. “Oh, my dear,” Margie says softly, stepping towards him. “Oh, oh, my dear.” She kneels down, stretching her pink skirt. “We asked too much of you, didn’t we, sweetheart?” she mutters, laying a comforting hand on his knee. 

Phil can do nothing but stare numbly. She puts a finger under his chin and smiles. “Now I’m all for a good cry under normal circumstances,” she says kindly, “but I’m afraid there’s something we ought to be doing right now, and crying will get in the way of it.” 

“I can’t go back,” Phil croaks out, strangling himself on the words. The thought terrifies him, another blank apartment and empty life--

“Shhh, sweetie. All in good time. There’s something I want you to see.” Margie rises to her feet, expertly dusting off her skirt. When Phil doesn’t move, she looks down at him. “Up you go, come on,” she says, her brisk tone not quite matching the twinkle in her eye. “We haven’t got all day.” She turns and marches out of the door. 

Phil has never left the confines of the tiny, pleasant room. He walks out after her and into a colossal hall, wide and tall with walls of white marble. Sunlight streams through the glass in the high ceiling, casting a shimmer over the polished floor. When they reach a grand oak door, Margie stops and puts a finger to her lips. Winking, she slowly pulls the door open.

The buzzing of a crowd of voices filters in from the room. At Margie’s gesture, Phil moves closer and peeks in. It’s a huge courtroom, open and marble like the hallway. The galley is crammed with standing crowd of spectators, blocking Phil’s view of the justices’ bench.

“Order! Order!” A man calls, and Phil hears the banging of a gavel. “I must protest, sir, this is highly irregular.” 

“No shit,” and Phil jumps at that beautiful, impossible voice, “but you really didn’t make the regular option easy to find, so this is all I’ve got left.” 

Phil pushes his way through the crowd until he has a clear view. Clinton Francis Barton is standing defiantly in front of a tall dais where five men and women in black robes are sitting. He’s wearing his only good suit, and the sight is so achingly familiar that Phil has to remind himself to breathe. Phil can feel Margie move into place behind him, but he can’t tear his eyes away from Clint. 

The justice in the center, an old man with deep brown skin, stares down at Clint angrily. “How dare you show such disrespect!”

Clint shrugs. “You guys make the decisions, and you decided not to give me tact. You did, however, give me one hell of a stubborn streak, so I’m going to be here for a while.” 

A thin, bird-like woman on the far left leans forward. “I’m afraid your efforts have been in vain, Mr. Barton,” she says in a shrill voice. “We decided on this case over a century ago, and we will not reverse our decision.” 

“Yeah, no, I’m not here for that,” Clint says, and the courtroom erupts again in. The old man bangs his gavel, and the galley quiets down. Clint gives the justices a smirk. “That case was about the wrongful death of Philip Crawford, a four-year-old boy born in 1908. I’m talking about Philip Coulson, who was never, you know, technically born.” 

The old man sputters, but the justice to his right places a hand on his arm. She’s small with a shaved head and tawny skin, and she smiles down at Clint with an expression Phil can’t read. “I believe you should tell us a little more, Mr. Barton.” 

At that, Clint appears to calm down. “I have a, uh--” He reaches into a pocket and drags out several pieces of paper folded over each other. “I’m not the best at public speaking, so I wrote it down, if that’s okay.” 

The woman nods kindly. “Please proceed, Mr. Barton.”

“Right.” Clint unfolds his papers and reads. “Phil Coulson didn’t have a real life. That’s the way you guys wanted it. He was put on Earth with nothing, no purpose, no family. He was supposed to wait around, alone, for the ten seconds he would be useful. But despite all that, despite the fact that the literal universe was against him, he found a way to be the best man I’ve ever known.

“Phil Coulson wasn’t given a purpose, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t important. I don’t know if you guys approve of all that SHIELD does, I don’t know if I do, but in his twenty years at SHIELD Phil Coulson has proven himself to be, above all, a good man. He never took a life when it could be avoided, he never left an agent behind, and he frequently put himself in harm’s way to protect civilians. I can count at least twenty people I know personally who are alive today because of Phil Coulson. One of them is me. So if adding up good deeds is something you guys are into, then I guess you have to count mine with Phil’s. But even if you don’t, it’s obvious that the world is a better place because Phil Coulson lived in it.

“Phil Coulson wasn’t given a family, but he still had such a capacity to love. Once he decided he cared for you, that was it. He would be by your side until the very end. He had this deadpan sense of humor that would brighten our day a little bit, and a loyalty that would continue to surprise us. As for me, I know that I am a better person because Phil loved me.” Clint breaks off from his papers and takes a deep breath. After a moment, he looks up. “Uh, for the record I think I should state that Natasha Ro--Natalia Romanova agrees with all that I’ve said. But she didn’t think she’d be too welcome here, so she stayed behind.” Clint fiddles with his papers and begins to read again.

“All that I’ve told you about Phil had nothing to do with his destiny and everything to do with _him._ He accomplished it without your help. Phil Coulson did not have a real life, after all. Well, I say that if his life didn’t really count then his death shouldn’t either. Give him a real life, a real chance at being the person you never let him be. We know that person, and we want him back. Thank you.” 

The galley erupts in noise, shocking Phil. He had forgotten that anyone existed except Clint. A tear rolls down his cheek. When the crowd quiets down, the small justice looks across the bench. “I believe we need to discuss this among ourselves. We’ll take a brief recess.” 

The justices stand up gracefully and step into a room off the corner. When the door closes behind them, Phil closes his eyes and breathes. Less than a second later, the door swings back open and the justices file out. Phil turns to Margie, who smiles. “They were in there for a century, dear.” 

The justices sit down. The old man in the center crosses his arms, but the small justice next to him is smiling. “It occurs to us,” she says and looks across the galley straight at Phil, “that there’s someone whose opinion we have failed to seek on this matter.” 

Margie gently pushes him, and Phil steps forward through the galley. Phil is filled with a sudden apprehension; he doesn’t know if Clint can recognize him. He doesn’t know which Phil he looks like when he’s here, Phil Coulson or Phil Sullivan or maybe who Phil Crawford would have been if a river didn’t get in the way. Then Clint turns around and his eyes meet Phil’s, and none of it matters anymore. Phil walks and can feel something change inside him. He feels strong now, whole, in a way that has nothing to do with the universe or destinies and everything to do with how Clint is staring at him like he won’t ever look away again.

Phil stops in front of the dias, a terrible four feet away from Clint. He takes a shaky breath and looks up at the justices. “Well, Philip,” the shrill woman on the end says, “if you had a choice, what life would you choose?” 

Phil pauses. “I really don’t care.” He look towards Clint and gives him a shaky smile. “I choose Clint. And it doesn’t matter what life you stick me in, I’m going to find him.” Clint grins back at him, eyes bright. 

When Phil turns back towards the bench, the small justice is smiling at him with an expression Phil can’t quite read. “In that case, Philip, we have a proposal for you. We offer to release you from your obligations and to return you to the life of Philip Coulson. You will have no further contact with this court, and your life will truly be yours.” 

One of the other justices speaks up, a young man sitting on the right. “It is important to note that this would be your last life. Once Philip Coulson dies, whenever that may be, you’ll have to confront whatever comes after on your own.” 

Phil swallows. “That’s what I want. One life, with Clint.” 

“Very well,” the old justice in the center says, straightening up. “Mr. Coulson, Mr. Barton, consider this matter resolved. Court is adjourned.”

Phil looks towards Clint. He's standing there, with his good suit and a haggard expression, and is the most perfect thing Phil's ever seen. “ _Clint._ ” He takes two steps forward and buries himself in Clint, clutching at his suit. Clint’s arms come up and wrap around him. “ _God,_ Phil.” Phil feels a nose press into his hair.

The sheer enormity of what has just happened hits him, and Phil laughs weakly. “Hi,” he says, tucking himself in closer. 

Clint makes a strangled noise. “Hi. God, Phil, this sucked. This sucked so much.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Let me make it up to you. I want to spend years making it up to you.” 

“Can we go home? God, how do we go home?” 

Home. Phil really likes the sound of that word. “It’s easy,” he whispers. “Just close your eyes.” 

 

***

_Once upon a time, an old man died in his sleep. He was buried next to his husband on a sunny October day. The funeral was small, attended by a few elderly men and women. The eulogy was given by a young man in sharp military dress, who spoke of sacrifice and honor but mostly of love._

_There was nothing particularly noteworthy about the event. The universe cannot be expected to pay attention to such everyday affairs, after all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written with [The Light](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-DFqmecuBKM) by Sara Bareilles on repeat, because Sara Bareilles is perfect. You can consider it a credits song to this fic, if it's not too pretentious to add a credits song to fic. 
> 
> We've reached the end! Writing this story has been an incredible experience, and I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you for all the love you've given these poor boys. <3

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILER TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> the non-graphic death of a child  
> graphic depiction of a non-lethal gunshot wound  
> reckless behavior (Clint jumps off buildings)  
> actions that can be perceived as suicidal (Phil, who can be reincarnated, often puts himself purposefully in harm's way)  
> graphic depiction of Phil's death, who is eventually reincarnated  
> non-graphic permament death due to old age


End file.
